


We're a Perfect Fit

by jetblacklilac



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, after 8x03, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 08:07:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18735004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetblacklilac/pseuds/jetblacklilac
Summary: A feast calls for some sort of social protocol. Sansa wants Arya to wear a dress. Jon wants none of this. Arya is intrigued.





	We're a Perfect Fit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sansateas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansateas/gifts).



> yes ep 4 bamboozled me for so MANY reasons

“I think it will end spectacularly.” Jon muttered from his side of the solar, ale on his hand.

He had not lifted his attention away from the reports and writings Sam has given them about an hour ago. It is understandable because they all itemize what needs to be done around the castle, what sections of the castle have been consumed by the icy flames of the dragon. On the large oval table, the maps with its figures are only waiting for the generals to structure a plan.

Sansa didn’t listen to her cousin and continued to inspect the sample dresses she finished not long ago. “To your amusement or mine?” She wonders with an arched brow.

This time, his grey eyes find hers and they both laugh. Winterfell is a solemn place, especially in the Lord’s solar where things get done. But there are exceptions when Sansa walks towards him, looking over his shoulder and lays her hand there.

Jon doesn’t say it, for reasons of walls servings as ears even in their home but this is his refuge from _her._ They aren’t bombarded with that look, her steely expression that seems as though Daenerys wants them to confess the very thing she suspects of them. In here, away from the eyes of the court and of his queen, Jon is tired but also handsome.

Sansa forgets the task at hand for a moment as she studies his profile. His raven curls brushing his cheeks, his nose possesses that elegant slant, his lush pink lips that remind her of two fresh petals. _Are his lips soft to the touch as well?_ These sorts of thoughts now crawl to her mind at untimely instances. She’s mastered the art of schooling her reaction as to not hint of what she was thinking.

 _A crown would suit him nicely; most like to match mine._  

“The feast tonight should be a sufficient distraction for everyone; dear cousin. Lift one’s spirit with songs, even for a night. Besides, I have handled every aspect of the feast and manage to economize it.” The Tully suggests. “And this,” She says and motioning to Sam’s tight looped handwriting of inventory. “We could talk about this in our council meeting before the feast.”

Jon holds her hand in place, showing her palm and presses a kiss there. “And what does my lady think I should be doing before the meeting?” He wonders.

 Intimacy, she secretly revels over, is quite easy between them. It’s a mindless action for Sansa to curl her hand on his elbow for him to bestow her knuckles with a kiss before they part for the night.

It’s a sort of freedom she never thought existed. Nothing could be gain politically if Sansa made those furs he always wears or if Jon is her unofficial second guard for he is her shadow.

She kisses the top of his head. “Mayhap I shall call a bath for you.”

If she must stay in thought of how casually familiar, they act then she would find them an odd pair. After the battle, the reunion was emotional. No one judged them as their arms ached from secure their arms were on each other, or the worn-out leather outfits were stained with wet relief.

_When Jon disclosed to them, one of the gravest secrets of Westeros, he flinched when Arya dragged the chair away and sat up. It broke her heart to suspect that Jon expected her little sister to move away in disgust. But Arya did not._

_“We survived the biggest battle of our lives. We endure, you_ _did_ _, as a Stark.” Arya said before hugging him fiercely. “You’re my _brother__ _._ _”_

_Sansa observes the fear flickering in Jon’s grey eyes. She realizes what this entails, the danger twined into the truth of who Jon is. The rightful heir to the Iron Throne, the true contender against his aunt. Her eyes widen and Jon nods; both silently acknowledging what the future holds. It’s a more realistic horror rather than one of something Old Nan would create._

_“I’m also a Tagaryen like her.” He grumbles, his brows knitting together and with shame, he stares at the floor._

_“You are nothing like her. You’re a Stark.” Arya assures him with a brief rub of his arm, as having not being accustomed to physical affection._

_“He is also the heir to the Iron Throne.” Bran’s monotone voice cuts through the familial atmosphere as that reality is brought forth, dragged to the center of their attention._

_Sansa wanted to hug him, comfort him by telling him things children would bring to them in their star filled dreams. But she needs to do better. She’ll protect him as he did for her._

“Perhaps you should attempt that impossible feat now, she might be sneaking off only the gods know where.” Jon says, smiling over at her; more genuine since his return.

“Perhaps I will.” Sansa agrees, speaking to the nearest maid of Jon’s bath. She then walks along the corridor, greeting the staffs and shortly arrives at Arya’s door. A knock and she entered.

Arya is lying on her bed, twisting the dagger, feet swaying. It’s rare to witness one of the greatest warriors in the land to look… bored. “Hello, Sans.” She greets, lifting herself on one elbow and smiles at her. The bruise on her eye is a shade of a plum but its nicely healing.

“You know why I’m here.” Sansa announces, dropping the sample dresses on the nearest chair.

“I shall wear what I always wear; what I want.” Her younger sister answers in a flippant manner.

“You’re wearing that awful bloody and not to mention worn out tunic, those ruined trousers, and those boots? The mud and dirt in them are so frequent I think the color of it has changed.” Sansa deadpans, her hand swept over her small stature.

Arya doesn’t laugh. “Yes.”

“Could you  _please_ try them, though?” Sansa pleads, jutting her lower lip and made her azure blue eyes wider. “The feast is a symbol of victory and you should maybe live up to your name? I heard a few poets are writing songs about you.”

The brunette sits up and sighs. “Then they should see me in my true form; a warrior in her bloodied armor, walking into the glorious feast.” She muses with a giggle when Sansa crunched her noise.

“It could help with Gendry’s pique.” Sansa casually mentions, smoothening the details on one of the dresses. She studies how gentle they are to each other, tending to their wounds, and how they act like lovers reuniting after years apart. Which, Sansa thinks with a hidden smile, quite literally they embody.

“Pardon?” Arya calls.

“Well,” Sansa drawled with clasped hands on her front. “It would be a nice change. Keep your man on his toes, if you may.”

“You mean confuse him? Now that, I shall participate in.” Arya rephrased her completely friendly statement. She drops the dagger on her bed and ambles to the redhead. Her eyes rove over on the dresses and she picked up the dress that is stacked along the others.

The dress matches her hair, caramel and in a shade that also highlights the loveliness in her eyes. Sansa knew Arya would detest the intricacies of a dress pattern similar to hers so she made it simple. Her designs are along the sleeves and ends of the dress. She made sure to incorporate their sigil on the chest portion, sewn in grey but not enough to make it stand out too much.

“This is lovely.” Arya studied one of the sleeves with a brilliant smile. “Your line is crooked here.” She points out with delight.

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Oh dear me, sister, I’m not perfect! And it has been years since I lifted a needle.” She defends herself, taking a step closer. “I have a surprise for you,” She sings.

“What, more dresses than these? I appreciate your efforts but-“

Before Arya could continue the praise she would’ve wanted to receive, she opened the pockets so cleverly hidden by the folds of the dress. She takes a peek and sees Arya’s face loosened by surprise.

“Oh wow….” Arya murmurs, staring at the pockets with a small smile. “Sans, you’re a bloody genius.”

“Your dagger fits there perfectly.” Sansa proclaimed in a sing song tone. “Try it on then.”

It took two seconds for hesitation before Arya bobs her head. “You know, it’s been a  _long_ time since I wore a dress, I don’t even know how to, anymore.” She laughs nervously.

It strikes Sansa that her sister has been through a lot; difficult trainings, almost being killed at every turn, had to flee the country. But one of the most important aspects is that Arya, like she, lost her childhood to terror and war.

Now, staring at the dress in mild awe, Arya looks nothing like the fierce woman in battle but a girl who’s fascinated by what a sister has done for her sister. “Sure thing.” Sansa retrieves a shift, bodice, few options for stockings and hands it to Arya. “You can change behind the screen.”

Arya dressed for about fifteen minutes, shouting at Sansa on what to do. Sansa volunteered to tie the strings of her bodice and of the dress. After patting the final knot, she walks her little sister to the looking glass; a large one that Sansa knows Arya doesn’t use.

“You look like a princess.” Sansa softly says with a smile.

“I do not look like Arya Horseface so much now. I, I look pretty.”  Arya breathes in disbelief. She stares at Sansa from the looking glass. “I’ll wear it for you, sister.”

“You said you only wear what you want. So, following your logic, you like my dress!” Sansa exclaims with a beam. She giggles when the brunette rolls her eyes.

She bids Arya to sit down and she brushes the knots away in her messy hair. Her dexterous fingers go to work, braiding a section of her hair, as she unconsciously hums a song. To her shock, Arya sings the lyrics, her voice soft and calming and they share a familial smile.

“If Mother saw us now, she’d think this is all a dream.” Arya laughs, her hands dancing on her thigh, her fingers gliding on the smooth silk. Sans aknows she isn’t used to wearing such a proper thing for a while now, having been on an adventure and having to run for her life.

She doesn’t comment on the subtle wonder in Arya’s eyes as she repeatedly takes out her dagger. It was adorable and she _can’t_ say that. Her brave sister would adorably be cross at her observation.

She twists a particular section of Arya’s hair. “I am certain you would not stay still for a second even if I would offer my assistance in our stitching lessons.” She inferred, making her little sister laugh.

“We were different then, we still are now but family comes first over anything. I love how you made this for me.” Arya admits, patting her thigh where she placed the dagger and her hand touches the style of her hair. Her face lights up. “Do your other dresses have this wonderful feature?”

 

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

 

The feast is magnificent, mainly because she knows Sansa oversaw the entire process. Jon trusted her capabilities and had no genuine interest on such a social event. Looking among the crowd, she sees her family at the high table and she joins them.

Jon’s eyes are comically widened. Sansa is beaming with pride. Daenerys takes a polite look before facing the crowd. Bran nods at her though she can spot a ghosting smirk.

“Are you blushing?” Jon teased before hugging her. He kissed the top of her head. “My, my, you even combed your hair! Fame changed you a lot, little sister.”

“Careful there, I have a knife in me.” Arya whispers in his ear before releasing the hug. She laughs at how Jon’s face falls with realization.

Daenerys recites a speech she hardly listens to. Raising her goblet, the survivors do the same and they drink the ale.

 Even now, she knows she should at least pretend to be listening. Glancing at the corner of her eye, she catches Sansa glancing at Jon with a fond emotion. And to no surprise, Jon smiles at her, not the forced kind he serves to his aunt, but one of genuine veneration. She recalls her parents when Jon and Sansa look each other in such a familiar manner. How is one supposed to cope with that kind of thought about her family?

Musicians are playing songs and some Wildings and soldiers snatch up maids to dance with; most of the men already drunk with the continuous flow of ale. The dress wasn't difficult to manage as she initially thought. The skirts were light enough that sometimes she forgets she's wearing a dress and not her usual trousers. She wanted to roll the sleeves until her elbows but she fears the fine silk will be ruined and she wouldn't want to do that with such a fine dress or to upset Sansa.

 Arya climbs down the high table in the same time as Sansa does. Unlike her sister, being asked to dance by Podrick, she stands next to Brienne and Jaime who were talking. Or arguing? She can never be sure with these two.  _What they need is to be alone, not bicker, and fuck._

 “Ah, Lady Arya, you’re so joyous of the celebration you wore a dress.” Jaime observed and drank from his cup.

 “Surely you must feel the same as I. We have beaten the dead; a feat only said in tales.” She coolly replies.

 “ _You_  beat the undead. Your name will live on for forever.” Brienne points out, almost sounding as motherly as Sansa.

“Cheers for Lady Arya then.” Jaime announces, raising his cup and the tall blonde does the same.

 

_Now this is a speech I approve of._

“Arya is that really you?”

She knows that voice anywhere, would recognize it even without her senses.

She turns and sees Gendry; wearing a nicer tunic, his chiselled face is free of soot and dirt one catches in an armoury. “Ah, Gendry.” Her mouth curves into a fond smile when his dark eyes study her new appearance.

 He had his jaw almost falling to the floor and he had to adjust his hand that held his goblet as though his initial surprise could’ve made him drop it. “Wow, Arya… you’re….”

“Beautiful? Breath-taking? I’d advise you to be creative.” Arya conditions with a firm tone.

“You’re a nicer oak tree, now. Like-like, an even better oak tree.” Gendry stammers, his voice almost loses its way with how cacophonous their surrounding is; singers reciting their songs, men shouting in drunken glee, and people stomping their feet as they try to sing along. 

_Sansa would think of his words as ill manner of flirtation._

 

But Arya, she  _recalls_ the origin of his words. She laughs, half in disbelief and the other half just  _so_ enrapture by this idiotic bull. She hugs him and she kisses his cheek. No one notices their brazen behaviour because of the busy party near them.

“Thank you.” Arya mumbles into his ear. “We should dance.”

“I don’t know how to.”

“Me netiher. It’ll be fun!”   

 

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

 

“How long have you known about Gendry and your sister?” Jon asks the moment she sat next to him.

Sansa is flushed with adrenaline from dancing about two songs. She enjoys Podrick as a partner; he’s endearingly inept and most of the time she had to teach him how to  _not_ step on her toes. 

“I’m a woman, Jon. I shall always know of these things.” She replies, drinking a sip of the ale. How do men live off this she shall never know?

He grumbles and shifts on his seat. “Is that why she wore the dress? Also she snuck a dagger in her dress!” he exclaims in brotherly concern.

“Oh, really Jon, she is a skilled person. She’d know when to stab someone. And she wore it because I made it.” Sansa sings and pokes his arm. “So you, dear Jon, owe me a dance.”

Looking past Jon, she sees Daenerys, staring at them with those intense blue eyes, intently studying their movements. She looks glowing in the candlelight; her silver locks with their braids flowing down her back. A frown twists her mouth, like she  _knows_ how soft Jon looks at her, or how Sansa clings on him through unnecessary circumstances.

 

At this angle Daenerys already looks like she’s sitting on the Iron Throne she would _kill_ anyone for. _Especially him,_ Sansa frets, wanting so badly to hold Jon’s hand, knowing his warmth will melt the icy nerves in her. The blonde looks lonely, at the far end of the table, staring at the cacophonous scene spread out for her; a rich tapestry of the conventional events when a feast occurs.

 

But isn’t it known for powerful monarchs to often feel isolated among their subjects? _Of whom, fear her._

 

Jon sighs. “Oh?” He cried in false alarm. “When have I said that?” It felt like years since Sansa heard him make a jape, brooding as he is.

 

“You didn’t but I’d like to dance with you.” She dictated.

 

“Sansa, I do not dance.”

“But I do.”

“I don’t want to step on your toes, my lady.” Jon deflects before drinking from his cup.

Sansa lays her hand on his; an innocent gesture for people to happen to glance in their direction if they are not deep into their cups. “Your concern is noted but I  _want_ to dance with you.”  _I want to feel your arms around me._

He sighs, rolling his eyes. “You’ll always be a brat, huh?” He resigns and holds her hand as they descend from the high table. When he settles his hand on her hip, they began to sway to the music.

“There’ll be another war in our future, Jon, with Cersei.” Sansa whispers, inching closer so no one else can hear. No one will care for how she leans into his touch like a lover when ale is freely flowing and the alcohol that Tormund seems to obsess over.

 Jon doesn’t miss the beat of the dance nor of her insinuations and concerns. A diplomat with a sense of rhythm Jon has become. “Unfortunately, yes, and her army is greater than ours.”

Sansa leans close, resting her chin on his shoulder before heaving a sigh. “We’ll think of something. We Starks endure.”

“I’m not a Stark-“

“ _Yes,_ you are.” She sharply intervenes, facing him with a frown. “You’re…” She tries to says something that would bring comfort, her fingers brushing the curls on his nape. To others, it’s an action a caring sister would bestow. But to her, that thought is leagues away. And she likes to think with Jon’s grey eyes gone glittery, he mirrors her fondness.

“What am I to you, Sansa?” Jon asks, intrigued and his grey eyes darkened further when he stares at her mouth.

_You’re my King, by the right that flows in your blood, kingsblood, You’re the Warden in the North. You’re everything Father wanted my husband to be. You’re the only man I trust with my heart, my safety._

She couldn’t profess all those things to him on this busy dance floor with inebriated soldiers surrounding them. His aunt tips her chin lower, deigning herself to spy on Jon and Sansa dancing like lovers, lovesick teenagers enjoying a night of celebration.

When, because the world might end might as well confess, she decides to say everything she feels, it’ll be in their solar, their own world they fought and created back from the ashes and blood the Boltons rained on their House.

“You’re Jon. Isn’t that enough?” She says instead, her voice a whisper of winter wind on his heated skin.

His hand on her waist squeezes and she loves how she understands him in any way imaginable. _Thank you._

To the people outside of their bubble, they would think of something  _too_ familiar, would comment on how their smiles are too soft like melting snow on one’s palm, and would see they’re dancing nearer to the drawn line on the sand. But no one would dare say a word against the lady and lord of Winterfell.

Except for one.

“I want to belong, like I have always dreamed of. I thought I’d understand that feeling in Castle Black but I didn’t.” He pauses because he spins her around; both of them giggling like children. “I thought I would know of it as a Stark but reality disagrees with me. I have no idea where my place is.”

“Where will  _we_ go? You once said to me.” Sansa reminds him, her hand brazenly curling on his shoulder. “That means we’ll be at each other’s side, no matter what. Is that an answer for you?”

Jon is intensely staring at her. He moves closer, nosing his cheek. “Awfully romantic.” He teased, the intimacy between them so bewitching they forget property; the very thing engrained and carved into Sansa’s bones. She resists blushing and smiling more at him, fearing his friends would notice, drunk as they are.  But he regrets what he said and mumbled a shy apologized.

“A marriage proposal then?” Sansa suggests. She doesn’t react as surprised as Jon is, continues to make them sway around the dance floor, ignoring a burning gaze by someone who remained at the high table. “Think about it purely in a political perspective. We would be tying our Houses together to ensure peace.” 

“There is still war in our horizon and you’re not thinking appropriately.” Jon stuttered, patting her hip. “You shouldn’t think of that for now. And I will not make a widow out of you.”

His tender affections to her are almost irritating if not for her heart is melting at the soft tone and his hold on her so gentle. She wants to say she has been thinking about it for a while now, since the revelation. She wants to say she doesn’t want him to stay in King’s Landing with his unworldly ethereal aunt with her fickle temperance.

_Where will we go?_ It’s almost serves as a wedding vow to her.

 

“You will not die. You  _can’t._ ” She affirmed with a bite to her tone. A world without Jon is unthinkable. He came back to life for a reason and she would ensure that he will fulfil his second purpose. “You’ll always come back to me, your family.”

“I’m family to you then.” Jon decided in a flat tone; his emotions tucked away and his face is a vacant mask. If Sansa told him this, years ago, before everything fell apart, Jon would have felt relieved at the acceptance of his place within the family. Being bastard meant nothing to Arya because she _still_ considers him a brother.

Now, he’s hesitant of hearing those words from her and _only_ her. And Sansa feels the same, no matter the consequence or damnable things people would say.

Sansa exhales through her nose. “To your family  _and_ to me.” She emphasized, differentiated, with an arched brow. He has to know by now, felt the dent of her fond stares at him, how she slung on him since their reunion.

“I’ll do anything to keep you safe, you know that.” Jon imparted as he cups her cheek, abandoning her waist so he can bring her impossibly closer.

Once, she would’ve rejected the very notion with a bitter laugh. But now the light of the candles bathing him in orange hues, making him appear stronger, more determined for her safety, the word  _knight_ dances in her mind. Not one in songs of her youth, pretty haired with unblemished skin wearing shining armour but  _this_ , rugged, sad, and devastatingly tender brother turned cousin.

“I know you do, have always done.” Sansa lowly says. She isn’t blind. She has witnessed first-hand of her cousin’s clever play on the queen’s fragile and fickle temperament. “Let me protect you too.”

 

“Me?” He eyes someone beyond her shoulder then stares at her; his face void of any emotion that Sansa has seen enough when  _she’s_ around him. “It seems I am the maiden in need.” He muses with a chuckle.

“You have a dagger in your dress?” Gendry exclaims in fear beside them.

Arya throws her head back in laughter. “If you keep on dancing over my toes, you’ll see it right here.” She jested, reaching up and kisses his neck. “My, your dancing skills have drastically improved, I see.”

Gendry glances at them. “Lovely sister you have.” He says and everyone laughs. 

Right now, in the arms of Jon, she feels as though nothing could go wrong. Of course she knows her proposal is left unsaid, he didn’t reject or accept it, the impending war is within their grasp, more events promise danger to everyone in the room; drunken with ale and clumsily dancing and singing.

But she sees Jon smiling at her with the fondest expression and he sneaks kisses on her forehead and hums along to the song wafting in the air like a good pie.

“I’ll marry you.” Jon mumbles into the side of her head. “We shall do it in secret with few people to witness.”  

“The best part is, Arya has a dress for the wedding!” She exclaims.

The song ends with everyone clapping except for Daenerys, dirnking from her goblet and her eyes on Jon, talking with Gendry and Arya, laughing.

Sansa knows not everything ends in a beautiful lilted note like her favourite songs. But this, her family and soon to be husband, she glances at Jon smiling as Arya talks to them, she’ll make sure they will live long enough to dance all together again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> after rereading the fic, i hated that it was so short so i added a few things. comments and kudos would be great! also wondering if i should do more fics based on the canon?


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